Since the press deserted it, since the Bourse left, the neighborhood has been a bit silent, but, at 32, rue Saint-Marc, this storefront speaks for itself and talks to us as in the past tense.
Sacred hut that one.
End of the penultimate century, it announces itself in bougnat, deposit of wood and coal, black mouth from behind the Grands Boulevards.
Continues in the flow of wines, in the early hours of the First World War, and decides, at the end of the Second, to convert the Parisian to the good mouth of Lyon.
Auriol, Coty, de Gaulle, Pompidou, Giscard, Mitterrand, the presidents parade but the appetites of recklessness come to the Lyonnais until the cork ends up tasting it.
Nerdy in the 1980s, tired in the 1990s, it was Ducasse who, in his art of the opposite, relaunched it twenty years ago.
This was the ups and downs of the den when the aforementioned Ducasse decided to rekindle the flame by entrusting it to a certain
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